It had been two days since Sherlock's confession. John was nervous. 

No reason to be, really. Work was fine, the house wasn't about to cave in, and Mycroft hadn't caused a war...yet. 

But Sherlock? 

Sherlock was normal enough. To an outside observer, he was as distant and insufferable as ever. But John, who knew him better than anyone else, saw the careful way he spoke (if he spoke at all, that is), and the careful, quiet way Sherlock was observing him. He made no remark to this point, and opted to rather send little, darting glances in Sherlock's direction, hoping that the detective would see how sorry he was. John couldn't believe how careless he had been. It was about as likely that Sherlock would admit to possessing any emotion as being struck by lightning. That was how it felt, actually. Like Sherlock's confession had struck him with a force that had left him clumsy and unguarded. 

John wasn't gay. Mary was, and would always be, his wife. Her death had certainly not made him any less certain of the fact. John Watson was not gay. Just yesterday a woman had smiled at him at the bar. He had smiled back, hadn't he? Thinking back, he couldn't remember. 

____________

John had tried his best to make himself scarce from Baker St. It wasn't that Sherlock was any more aggravating than usual. It was just the opposite, really. Sherlock had been unusually quiet since the confession. John told himself that he was being irrational. Really now, you can't expect Sherlock to talk all the time. 

He tried to ignore the voice in his head that told him that Sherlock wasn't talking at all. 

It had been three days since Sherlock's confession.